As of today, I’m back. Last week, I had a number of people ask me what ever became of this blog. While chatting with the wife about it over the weekend, she came up with an idea: you know, just don’t try to post as often.

Before, I was trying to post three times a week. Now, I’m going to post once a month. Actually, twice. But one of the posts is going to be directing readers to Hobart, an online magazine where I’m currently writing a monthly bourbon column. Some months, I might get frisky and post an extra restaurant review or something, but generally, you can count on at least 2 posts a month here.

So, as the above picture suggests, this return post is about this month’s column at Hobart, wherein I review Dickel No. 12, and have something of a nihlist breakdown. Here’s an excerpt:

This month’s column was going to be about quitting my last job, but what’s the point. It was mostly uninteresting anyway. Everyone was happy for me and I put in my final two weeks without mess or fuss. And let’s face it, that column was likely going to devolve into masturbatory backslapping and pithy advice about working hard and not expecting breaks and all that rot and rubbish.

Tonight, I spent three hours with friends discussing whether we wanted to continue making sandwiches for the Indy poor. Afterwards, I was involved in an argument about whether people from our church should be scolded for parking in spots not actually designated for parking.

In 100 years, the likelihood of either of these conversations being important is slim to nil. The world feels so big and tired and broken.

As Michael Pollen says (everywhere, but first in In Defense of Food), “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” Keep it simple, stupid. The more rules & restrictions, the more you stress, the more you crave foods you “can’t have” & the more you dislike eating–which should be a total joy!

One of my favorite things to do as a blogger is to pay attention to the search terms people have used to lead them here to Put It In Your Face. For lack of anything better to post today, here are some of my favorites for the ol’ shits and giggs:

I’ve been a bit inattentive to PIIYF the past couple weeks, because I’ve been out livin’ like a boss. It’s spring/summer here in Indianapolis right now, so pretty much all my free time has been spent in my backyard getting blisters and sunburns.

You see, it all started with Britt’s decision that a 9ft-by-9ft section of our driveway needed repaired because evidently, someone buried a giant squid beneath it, and it grew so big, it cracked and pushed up the aforementioned section of our driveway about 8 inches from where it should have been. So, I sledgehammered the all hell out of that concrete, grabbed a shovel, and with the help of my dad, brother, and a chainsaw, hacked the beast free.

Squid Root.

Then came about a month of intermittent prep work of digging and leveling and filling in with base rock, and finally last Sunday, Dad, my brother, and my pal Tyler came, and we poured the fresh slab.

I went out last night, and dug the hole for the final fence post, which we were waiting until we had the driveway patched before installing. I concreted that fucker into the ground, and tonight, I’m going to tamp the dirt back around it, and hang the last 2 sections of fence, which completes the major backyard projects for now.

The last post is set.

I’ve been spending the last few days strutting around my yard feeling like a grown ass man having done stuff like poured concrete and hung fence and you should see how my garden is growing. I AM MAN OF THE EARTH! My masculine ego right now is about as phallic at that last fence post sticking out of the earth might suggest.

Anyway, soon, my ego will grow flaccid when I remember I’m a dude with a food blog (a hobby on the complete opposite end of the masculinity scale as “pouring concrete” and “killing animals for sport”), I’ll grab my camera during magic hour, and shoot some good photos of my newly-minted backyard and all the fresh goodness growing from it.

I’ll also get back into my weekly food planning, and perhaps I’ll even take some time this weekend to cook something so I can post a recipe here again.

Two weekends ago, I went into the woods with 3 of my newly closest friends, Tyler, Ashley, and Layne. The 4 of us comprise what we affectionately and only half-ironically call “The Wolf Pack.” We were a group of friends born of a trip to the magical Akron, Ohio last January, which you may recall hearing about here at PIIYF. This year, Ashley turns 25 years old, and she has a list of 25 things to accomplish before she turns 25, things she’s never done before. One of those things is camping.

Mississinewa is a little state recreation area in northern Indiana, a campground where Tyler spent a decent part of his childhood, and not all too far from where the 4 of us live in Indianapolis, Muncie, and Elwood respectively. So, to check yet another bit of goodness off Ashley’s list, we all piled into my Montero Sport, and went north into the woods.

“Well, there wasn’t any overt racism here.”

On the way there, we stopped in Swayzee, IN (no, not like Patrick Swayze; Tyler will fight you about this) to get dinner at Social’s Cafe. As you might imagine, Ashley is particularly attuned to identifying the precursors of a possible racial altercation while venturing out into tiny-town Indiana, and flags were raised when upon walking in, there were numerous Palin 2012 stickers still bedecking the door and many of the booths. Luckily, aside from some mean-mugging from a particularly old and codgerly looking man, we got by unscathed, though my pork tenderloin was more of an air bubble than a meat patty, and Layne was unable to finish a turkey club the size of her head.

We arrived at Mississinewa, set up camp, built a fire, and spent some chill time around the fire drinking and talking and repeating repeating. It was mostly uneventful for anyone other than us. We have plenty of things to laugh about from that night, but they are all of the “you had to be there” variety.

The next morning, we hung out together in a tent until the rain subsided, and decided to head into a nearby town for lunch and so I could pick up some beef and perishables for the nachos we’d have later that day. Upon seeing the sign for Mr. Weenies, we couldn’t pass it up.

Weenies had a formidable menu, to say the least. They sold a variety of hot dogs, as you’d expect, along with Weenie Burgers, which were 1/3 pound and thus the opposite of weenie. They also sold “panties.” It was on the menu, I swear.

I don’t know, man. Merchandising, I guess.

We ate, my pork tenderloin making up for the bogus PT at Social’s the night before, and putting down a chocolate malt that owned my life. And my stomach. I really need to start acting and eating like I’m lactose intolerant.

I bought beef and nachos were made that night.

Beefy nachos were beefy.

There was more chicanery involving fire and laughter and a particularly friendly raccoon. I won’t bore you with our inside jokes. I’ll make with the bacon and egg breakfast supplied by Ashley and Layne the next morning.

Due to cooking over the camp stove and its inability to turn down to anything below what most rangetops would consider medium-high heat, I ended up frying the bacon at a much higher temperature than normal, and it turned out perfect. Normally I cook it slow, let it render and then crisp, but it tends still to be rubbery and tough in spots. Not this bacon. It was straight crisp and bacony. I’m going to have to try this method at home and see what kind of results I get. I think I’ve been cooking bacon all wrong…

Anyway. That was breakfast. We packed up. We turned south. The quiet drive home. The knowing that we’re spending our summer far from one another, that starting in late May, Layne leaves for North Carolina, Tyler leaves for a 2 month road trip. Ashley is moving closer, to Irvington, and we’ll likely hang out, likely talk constantly about how much we miss Layne and Tyler, how much we can’t wait for them to come home. Before then, we’ll see each other once more. We’ll laugh at the things I didn’t mention here. We’ll maybe cry about them, too, we’ll maybe cry. We’ll maybe cry. We’re a Pack.

I know these places aren’t the epitome of fine dining. I know when the Double Down hit the market at KFC, I went to there. I doubled-down. Despite having a food blog, I have a fully capable and willing palette for low-brow tastes. But there needs to be some limits. There needs to be some quality control.

I have a co-worker who makes the best dark chocolate covered bacon I’ve ever had. The bacon was crisp and salty, the chocolate rich. The contrast of salty vs. sweet was perfect. When chocolate covered bacon came to the Indiana State Fair a couple years ago, I thought, “Okay. Cool. I’ll get some.” But what I got was nothing like my co-worker’s. The bacon was thin, under cooked, and refrigerated to keep the chocolate cold, so when you bit into it, it was like biting into a limp handshake covered in cheap chocolate.

When bacon at chains like Denny’s and Burger King starts being used for anything other than their burgers and maybe crumbles on their salads, we should be outraged. We should say, “No.” We should say, “What you are doing is wrong. What you are doing is the Devil’s work.”

Sorry it’s been so quiet around here the past week or so. Life has been insane since returning from AWP, and I’ve been having to focus practically all my free time on my other pet project, Vouched Books, and the upcoming Over the Top Reading Tour next month. Check this out:

If you live in or near those cities, it’d be amazing to see you out to one of these readings!

I have some PIIYF posts in the hopper including a review of Booker’s Bourbon, a peanut stirfry recipe, and more highlights from the Portland trip. Until then, I hope you’re enjoying this pre-Spring weather!